


The One Less Traveled By

by fadagaski



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Everybody Lives, Gen, Nux Lives, What-If, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadagaski/pseuds/fadagaski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Max hadn’t blown the engine on the race back? What if he had controlled his irrational competition with Slit, and Valkyrie had been a bit faster at snapping the Razor Cola’s driver?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One Less Traveled By

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'The Road Not Taken' by Robert Frost.

Razor Cola skids away. Max clambers along the side of the War Rig’s cab. “That was close,” Furiosa says. The engines are hot but holding. Max nods, grim. Behind them comes the rumble of a hundred engines, the wail and cry of an electric flame-throwing guitar. The horizon is thick with their churned dust. 

Max scuttles further back. His mind is racing a mile a minute. The fastest of the fleet might reach them just before the Rock Rider pass, but only just. The War Rig is a magnificent beast, strong and fast, especially when masterfully steered by Furiosa.

The Wives and Mothers sit, tense but calm. Max grabs Nux’s hand. “You stay here. Fix the engine if it blows.” Then he looks at the white-haired Vuvalini next to him. “You and me: fifth wheel. We’ll unhook the tanker.”

They scramble back. 

The Rig rattles on. The War Parties stream behind in their wake, staggered according to their speed. An oil refining rig shrinks away. Joe’s monster truck barely keeps pace. Valykrie and Mari circle the Rig looking for prey but there’s no one to shoot. The Pursuit Specials are only just beginning to gain ground.

They eat up the desert. Furiosa blasts the horn just as they enter the Pass, where she has to slow down. Max and the Many Mothers take up sniping positions, keep a wary watch on the rocks. Just as well. The only warning they get is the high rev of a dirt bike before the Riders descend upon them. They launch in graceful arcs of death, guns spraying the Rig with bullets, grenades raining from on high. Max gets three, the Mothers take the rest. One Rider somehow lands on the Rig’s engine plates, points a gun through the windshield at Furiosa. She slams the brakes and he goes flying.

More engines as the fastest pursuit vehicles enter the Pass. The remaining Riders scatter. Furiosa nudges the accelerator, swinging the Rig around sharp corners, mere inches from the rock. 

They get to the Pass. Valkrie and Mari zip through on the bike. The Vuvalini climb from the tanker to the cab with rifles slung over their shoulders. Max crouches next to the locking mechanism and waits for the right moment. 

Furiosa pulls the horn. 

Max pulls the lock.

The tanker drops away, running loose. It ploughs into the canyon wall in a shriek of metal, flips and bends, wrenching into new torturous shapes. The noise is deafening. The pursuing Warboys smash into the wreckage one after another. 

Free of its load, the War Rig zooms away. It is bristling with people. The only space Max can find to sit is on the hood, next to the engine vents. He sits, leaning sideways against the glass, props his shotgun across his legs. Someone in the cab lets out a shrill cry of victory, matched by the others. The Wives cheer.

Max meets Furiosa’s eyes through the windscreen. They share a solemn nod. It’s not over yet.

* * *

They reach Citadel just after dawn the next day, after a quiet night’s drive. The Wretched scurry like rats out of the sand to surround this lone returning vehicle, devoid its normal load. Their eyes are sharp and curious. 

Furiosa steers them to the bottom of the middle tower. They sit silently in the cab, waiting. The lift descends halfway until the Gatekeeper lifts his arm and the drums stop. The Brakeman pulls the lever. 

“Reveal yourself,” the Gatekeeper demands. 

“Get ready,” Furiosa murmurs to the Mothers, to Max and Nux and even Toast. Their guns are poised and ready. They smashed the windows out already.

The suicide door swings open. Furiosa steps carefully out, makes her way to the hood of the Rig. Holds her hands - metal and human both - aloft. 

“It’s Furiosa!” goes the cry among the Wretched. Rumours have spread about her. 

The Gatekeeper aims his weapon. “Traitor!” he shouts. “Someone arrest her!” 

The Wretched lap closer.

“There’s no one left to arrest me,” Furiosa replies, shrugging one shoulder carelessly. 

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t shoot you.”

Furiosa bares her teeth. “Take a closer look at the Rig.” 

He does, and sees a dozen guns pointing out. 

Furiosa scans the white-painted Warpups sitting impassively in the shade of the rock until she sees the small figure of Corpus in his chair. “Let us up, or you’re a dead man,” she says, simple as that. 

“Or I leave you there for my dad to shred when he gets back,” he sneers back. A moan of denial washes through the Wretched. 

“You’ll still be dead, either way,” Furiosa says. 

A pause, as each assesses the other. Then - 

The SNAP of a gunshot from the lift. 

Furiosa is spun by the impact, flesh of her upper arm torn open and blood splattering over the Rig. The bullet smashes through the windscreen and thunks into Max’s bicep. 

The War Rig flashes with gunfire. In seconds, the two Gatekeepers, the Brakeman, and Corpus are all riddled with holes. 

The lift descends. The Wretched watch, hunched and silent, as the Rig rumbles to life and rolls forward the last few feet, Mari’s bike parking up beside it. 

Up they go. The Mothers scramble out of the Rig, weapons ready. The Wives ease Furiosa off the hood. Blood is pouring from her shoulder. Capable presses a wad of cloth to it, holds firm despite Furiosa’s hiss of pain. 

When the reach the top, they are surrounded by Warpups. No one moves, or says anything. Then, Nux slides out of the cab. 

“Nux. What’s going on?” one of the older pups says. 

“Furiosa’s set us free,” Nux says. 

“She’s a traitor,” another counters. 

“Nah, she’s not. I’ll explain it. Come on.” And just like that, they follow their brother, leaving the women alone. 

Furiosa glances around blearily. “Where’s the fool?” 

Valkyrie goes to the driver’s side, climbs up the steps and peers in. 

“Fuck,” she says with feeling. 

They manage to get both Max and Furiosa off the lift to Joe’s antechamber. Furiosa gets stitches, but her arm hangs useless for the time being. Max suffers to have the bullet extracted from the meat of his arm, and stitches after. 

Nux comes back with his gaggle of pups, all of them eager to see Furiosa-their-saviour. They curl up around the Wives and Mothers after a quick meal.

“It won’t be long before he gets here,” Valkyrie says. “He’ll get most of his forces through.”

“We need to mark ourselves as different. Better,” Toast says. “Rally support.” 

Furiosa, woozy and propped against Max, and he against her, nods her head slowly. “Free the Bloodbags,” she says. “The Mill Rats. The Artisans. Bring in the Wretched.”

“Should we offer amnesty?” asks Mari.

“Can we trust anyone who would take it?” Keeper counters. 

“Warboys don’t lie,” Nux says. “It’s not chrome.”

Furiosa nods again. “Give them the choice.”

* * *

At dusk, there is rock music on the horizon.

By nightfall, Joe is at the gates, and he is murderously angry, but not stupid. He stays inside the Gigahorse. 

“Lower the lift!” Prime Imperator cries.

“No,” a voice croaks over the loudspeaker, a woman’s voice, old and dry. “Fuck off!” 

“The Immortan has returned and demands access!”

“If he’s so bloody powerful he can come and get it!” 

Prime Imperator pulls his gun, aims it in the general direction of the Skull, but there’s no one to shoot at. Even the Wretched have disappeared.

“Give us Furiosa, and you can all go free.”

“Give us Joe, so can you.”

“The Immortan -”

KABOOM.

So distracted were they all, they never noticed a shadow moving beneath the Gigahorse. The Immortan, Rictus, the Prime and Second Imperators all light up in a dazzling bloom of white heat and fire. 

The rock guitar squeals to an abrupt stop. The Warboys cry out in horror. 

“Your god is dead,” says the old woman. “Join us, or go away. You won’t take the Citadel by force.”

The Warboys chunter to each other, low and vengeful. 

One steps forward. He has lumps on his neck and staples over split cheeks. He brings his hands above his head in the V8. “IMMORTAN!” he cries. 

They launch themselves at the rockface.

Gunfire blossoms all around.

It’s a bloodbath.

* * *

The sun rises on corpses and abandoned cars. The Wretched scavenge whatever they can get their hands on. 

Nux and the Wives keep the pups inside.

Furiosa stands at the open door to one car in particular. Her arm is in a sling to match the one on the man opposite her. They survey the carnage around them. 

“It doesn’t feel like a victory,” she says, hollow-voiced. 

“Mmm. Wordburger: Pyrrhic victory.”

They breathe together, savage smell of death thick on their tongues.

“I don’t want to be like him.”

Max hums, non-committal. 

“Fool,” Furiosa says. “Stay?”

He gives her a hooded look. “Come with?”

Neither responds.

Max slides into his car. It smells of Warboy, and has weird Warboy paraphernalia welded to it, but it’s his Interceptor. 

Furiosa leans in through the window.

“At least tell me your name,” she says. 

He offers her a wan smile.

“Max. My name is Max.”

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on Tumblr for more [Mad Max mayhem](http://fadagaski.tumblr.com/).


End file.
